


Rule number one...

by NerdsLover



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Love Confessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 09:19:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19765207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdsLover/pseuds/NerdsLover
Summary: Whatever happens, if you don't want to lose your sanity, there is one rule which has to be followed: always believe in Sherlock.





	Rule number one...

**Author's Note:**

> Request from my Tumblr: "Could you make one story after Sherlock returns from the death?"  
> I hope you will enjoy it <3

She hadn’t been there when Sherlock had fallen from the roof of Saint-Barts Hospital. No. She hadn’t been there because the Detective hadn’t even deigned to call her, to tell her he maybe was going to die. These had been Y/N’s first thoughts when someone – maybe John? She couldn’t remember already – had called her to tell her what had happened. Sherlock Holmes was dead. That was what had happened. Sherlock Holmes had jumped from a roof, and she hadn’t been there to stop him, to catch him. She hadn’t been there to beg him not to do this madness, to stay with her. To promise him if he dared to jump, the fool, she would resurrect him, then kill him herself! To tell him… Whatever. He was dead now.

She had been to his funeral. It had been the worst Y/N had ever been, and she had seen several funerals in her short life. She didn’t want to count how many; she already had cried every bit of wetness her body might contain. Y/N had escorted several people she loved to their grave, but she had never attended a wedding. Never. It was always a thought which crossed her mind when she was getting herself dressed all in black before going to the church. She had outfits to go to funerals, none to go to weddings. She had more seen death than love. Love…

Y/N never had the time to tell Sherlock how much she loved him. Well, in fact, she had plenty of occasions, but it was less painful to lie to herself. She had feared his reaction. Would he reject her? Laugh at her? Manipulate her? No, no, Y/N knew very well he would never do such things. Never with someone who has genuine feelings towards him, at least. She was sure about it. _Rule number one: always believe in Sherlock._ It was almost a ritual between the genius and Y/N: each time John started to doubt Sherlock, each time the Doctor started to pout or to scream, Y/N would face him and tell him “Rule number one: always believe in Sherlock”. It was a way for her to tell the Detective she trusted him, whatever happens; also a way to remind it to John. It was a hard rule to follow while standing in front of his grave.

When Y/N went back home, after the funerals, she discovered a letter between the bills and the flyers. Her heart jumped out of her chest when she recognized the nervous fly tab writing. Ah, it seems she had some tears left to cry, after all. Vision blurry, she opened the envelope:

“ _Keep it secret._

_Wait for me._

_Rule number one.”_

That was all. Hands shaking, heart pounding, Y/N checked the postmarked date. That was impossible. And yet… Y/N didn’t care if there was a God, some aliens or anything in the sky above her. She didn’t need that to be a believer.

Less than an hour later, she was rushing to Scotland Yard. Whatever had happened to Sherlock, she wouldn’t let people think he was an impostor. His honour had to be restored, and Greg Lestrade was more than willing to help her in that task.

_Rule number one: always believe in Sherlock._ Y/N wasn’t the only one to follow this rule.

***

_ Two years later _

Hope could have vanished. Y/N would sometimes like her hope to vanish. It would be less painful, more bearable. But it was as plain, as intact as the day she had received the nebula letter. To say the truth, each day spent had made her hope grow in a way: she knew Sherlock had to be alive, so he will return, one way or another. As each passing day without any sign of the Detective hurt her, and tested her faith, Y/N clung to her hope, refusing to trespass on the rule she established herself. Sherlock had asked her to wait for him and Y/N had never been able to deny anything to the genius. That wasn’t going to stop now. 

Most of the days were practically normal. She went about her business, sure to immediately understand what would go on if the Detective showed up. She was waiting for him, sure, but she also needed to live while waiting. And to be sure others were still alive too, like the poor Mrs. Hudson. John didn’t visit her, contrary to what he had promised. Y/N did. It wasn’t easy but she had to. She couldn’t leave the poor landlady all alone, even if that meant going to 221b Baker Street every week. Entering the flat was always a torture and, to overcome the pain, Y/N was thinking about the moment Sherlock would come back, about how much she will be happy to enter the flat at that moment, how this very moment would exchange all this pain with extra happiness. She draped herself in her hope like in a blanket. 

Since she was the only one to visit Mrs. Hudson, Y/N hadn’t been surprised when the landlady had asked her to stay at her flat while she went to Devon to see her nephew. Mrs. Hudson was waiting for an important package which must be delivered during the week, but she was also urgently needed in the countryside. What was the package Mrs. Hudson was waiting for and why she absolutely had to go to her nephew’s place right now, Y/N didn’t know, but she knew very well she couldn’t deny the sweet, cute woman. It wasn’t a big deal, after all, just a couple of nights spent on Mrs. Hudson’s couch. She had proposed to Y/N to open Sherlock’s flat for her, but Y/N had refused. No need to add more suffering, facing his deerstalker each time she entered the hall was painful enough. Mrs. Hudson still had given her the spare keys, in case Y/N changed her mind.

The first day passed quickly, Y/N had found things to busy herself, stopping her from thinking too much about where she was. Then the night went. With a heavy heart, Y/N lay down in the settee, wrapping a blanket around her. For an instant, she felt a deep desire to use the spare keys, the morbid desire to face the place she knew so well, cry all the tears from her body and fall asleep from exhaustion, maybe in his armchair. She could do that, nobody would know. Then, she heard it.

Violin playing.

She was finally going crazy, or the miracle she had been waiting for two years had just come true. Y/N felt her hope growing in her chest, filling all the space, stopping her from breathing. She wanted to believe it like she never had wanted something before, but she was sure to be filled with sorrow if she rushed upstairs to discover she had been daydreaming. Short of breath, she closely listened, watching the ceiling in a silent prayer. _Rule number one, rule number one, rule number one, rule number one, rule number one, rule number one…_ It definitely was violin playing.

Y/N pounced up the stairs before entering the flat. Everything was dark in the shadow, except for the dust dancing in the moonlight. Everything was dark, but not enough to keep Y/N from noticing the human shape in Sherlock’s armchair and the violin bow coming and going from the shadow in the shallow light.

“Tell me it’s you or I’ll have a corona right there and then and you will be very sorry because it won’t be pretend.”

The violin stopped. Then came only three words, not the ones she was expecting.

“Rule number one…”

Without even thinking, the end of the sentence came from Y/N, like a mantra. Like the mantra she had repeated for two long, long years.

“… Always believe in Sherlock.”

In a heartbeat, she was squeezing him against her heart. She was crying so much, she couldn’t see anything. But she could very well feel two long and strong arms moving to her waist. As if all her prayers hadn’t already been fulfilled tonight, Sherlock was hugging her back. Sherlock was alive. Sherlock was back. Sherlock was drawing little soothing circles on her back with the palm of his hand. Y/N passed out.

She woke up some minutes later, laying on the couch. Sherlock was looking at her worriedly. When she saw his face in the light, she almost fainted a second time.

“W… What happened to you? Your… Your face…”

He brought his hand to his face and pushed lightly on one of the numerous bruises there, frowning.

“Ah. Eh… Everyone wasn’t as happy to see me as you were…”

“… Excuse me, are you saying someone had _beaten_ you?”

“Well… Kinda.”

“Who?”

“It doesn’t matter… You scared me, pray warn me when you’re about to pass…”

“Who?”

Y/N had never been able to bear that someone dares to raise their hand on Sherlock. It seemed two years waiting for his return had exacerbated this feeling. She wasn’t about to lose consciousness anymore, she was about to burst in anger. Sherlock saw it and didn’t dare to avoid the question a second time.

“… John.”

No. That was a joke, certainly.

“Sorry, did I hit my head on the floor or something or did you tell me your best friend punched you in the face with enough force to make you bleed when he discovered you weren’t really dead?”

“Well, you didn’t hit your head.”

Y/N got up from the couch and charged towards the door, screaming

“THE SON OF A…”

But Sherlock caught her by the wrist before she exited the living room.

“No, it’s all right, I deserved this and…”

“NO, IT’S NOT ALL RIGHT! When will you understand no one has the right to hit you, Sherlock?! It’s not even the first time he’s done it! If he absolutely wants violence, I’ll give him violence, we’ll see what he’ll say when _he_ has his own blood on his face! What the Hell! Look at what he did to you! Is it what he does to his friend? To his _best_ friend? Then what does he do to his enemies? Bake cookies?! I’m so fed up! I will…”

It really was an emotional roller-coaster of a night. After sadness, relief and anger, awe was making it’s grand entrance. Sherlock was kissing Y/N, slowly, deeply, like he was relishing the moment. Anyway, Y/N definitely was. When they broke apart, gasping for air, she whispered however:

“If you think this will exempt John from my fist in his face, you’re fooling yourself…”

Sherlock kissed Y/N’s forehead, then smiled softly.

“First, I know better than trying to stop you, I don’t want to die for real. Second, it’s the third time I try to say I love you this evening and the third time you stopped me. Stop stopping me.”

There was a blank while Y/N was staring at Sherlock. Agape. Seeing she was momentarily speechless, the Detective jumped on the occasion.

“I love you.”

Exiting her trance, Y/N looked up at the man she has loved for such a long time.

“Are you complaining because you had to wait twenty minutes to confess your love to me while I had waited for two years to know you were alive?”

That had been said in a playful tone, but that was also true.

Sherlock made a lovely pout.

“Is that all that you have to say to me?”

“No… I love you too…”

“Ah! Finally! And you knew I wasn’t dead, I sent you a letter. Rule number one…”

“… Always believe in Sherlock. Rule number two…”

“There is no rule number two…”

“There is now. Rule number two: never hurt Sherlock, or Y/N will raise Hell on the fool who had dared.”

Sherlock’s smile turned somewhat possessive.

“Is that so? Right, then, rule number three: never stop Sherlock from kissing Y/N.”

“Or what?”

The only answer Y/N got was another kiss. She wasn’t about to complain. At all.

[Tumblr](https://i-m-sherlocked-twice.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading <3


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